


A Perfect Likeness

by thegrendel



Category: Nofandom, Original Work
Genre: F/M, Post-Break Up, Supernatural Elements, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-24 03:20:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14946632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrendel/pseuds/thegrendel
Summary: A solid silver statue of a nude woman. But, where did it come from?





	A Perfect Likeness

There was a parcel tightly wedged in the mailbox when Bill got home from  
work. It wasn't all that big, but _damn_ , it was heavy for its size.  
Priority mail, and insured, too. Very mysterious. He couldn't remember  
having ordered any merchandise recently.

Bubble wrap and plastic peanuts littered the floor under his kitchen table.  
And _there_ , up on the shelf above the stereo, there _it_ stood.  
The contents of the package. A statuette. An five-inch tall highly  
detailed rendering of a nude woman. A very plump nude woman. And it was  
solid metal, shiny, silvery metal. Silver? Nah, it couldn't be.

It was. A friend of his who worked at a jeweler's shop verified it.  
Solid sterling silver. Four pounds of silver, worth something like $900  
melted down. But Bill wouldn't be selling the silver statuette any  
time soon. It was just too strange. Too fascinating. The exquisitely  
rendered details. The erect nipples. Even the genital area, anatomically  
correct right down to . . . lust-engorged labia, the clitoris, and the  
vaginal opening itself. The jutting, pear-shaped buttocks, the inviting  
valley between them, and the enticingly puckered little anus. It was a  
classically voluptuous body -- quite a _fat_ body by modern standards  
\-- rendered in miniature, in a precious metal. And the facial features  
reminded him of someone he used to know. Someone he hadn't thought about  
for years. Someone he would have preferred to forget.

Brenda. Big-butt Brenda. His girlfriend for those two unforgettable  
months back when he was a sophomore at East Hampton U. She was the  
hottest, lustiest woman he had ever taken to bed. The problem was that  
she had fallen for him . . . hard. He had lusted for her, but hadn't  
really _loved_ her. How could he? She was fat. Grossly fat. So fat  
people made fun of her to her face. In public. Fat! And that huge ass  
of hers. That ass he had so enjoyed bouncing against when he took her  
from behind. That ass that he had wanted so badly to fuck, and that, on  
one memorable night she had opened to him . . . that ass that made his  
face burn with embarrassment when his buddies made jokes about it. Being  
with her was damaging his rep. So he really hadn't had much choice. He  
had dumped her, of course.

Fifteen years and a dozen girlfriends later, Bill still missed Brenda.  
Missed her warmth and . . . the joy it brought him just to be near her.  
Missed her laughter and her squeals of pleasure when she came. Missed her.  
Ached for her.

The statuette ended up on the pillow next to him that night when he  
drifted off to sleep. Somehow, it felt like it belonged there. And he  
had such vivid dreams. He was making love to Brenda. She was stretched  
full length on top of him, and he relished the feel of her 260 pounds  
enveloping him in her yielding, fleshy warmth, grinding him deeply into  
the mattress. (Damn, that was a sensation none of his later girlfriends  
had been able to give him!) He awakened gasping for breath as his body let  
loose its built-up tensions in a prolonged, throbbing gush. The bedsheet  
reeked of sex . . . his juices and something else. What? It smelled of  
Brenda. He remembered her particular odor, that body smell that meant  
she was horny, that she wanted him inside her. The smell hung heavily  
in the air. There were tears in his eyes.

The statuette. Where was it? There! That lump under the covers. It  
was . . . it wasn't quite the same. Its limbs seemed to have changed  
position, to have stretched out. And its face . . . The eyes were closed  
now, and _there_ was that expression of ecstatic abandon he had become  
accustomed to seeing on Brenda's face after she'd had an especially  
powerful orgasm. What the hell was going on here?

This was _way_ too weird for him. He'd have to get to the bottom of this  
or . . . Or what? Well, one way to find out. He'd get a hold of Brenda  
herself and clear up the mystery.

He managed to get her parents' phone number from Directory Assistance.  
They still lived in the same town, though at a different address. Her  
mother was not at all pleased to hear from him.

"Bill? Bill Hillyard? Yes, certainly I remember you. You were the one  
who hurt Brenda so badly back when she was in school. She had told us how  
much she loved you and how she hoped you might marry her some day. Then  
you went and brutally trampled on her feelings. She was never the same  
after that."

"Ma'am, I'm sorry. If I could only take back some of the things I said  
to her . . . I realize, I realize now that she was, she could have been  
the woman I've been looking for, the soulmate I've never found in all  
these years. What I want, I think, is another chance, or at least for  
her to hear me tell her how much I regret -- "

"It's a little late for that, Bill. Brenda, our Brenda, my little baby  
. . . Brenda is no longer with us."

"She's -- she went away? Tell me she's all right. Please!"

"I'm afraid she's gone. Dead. And I lay a large part of the blame at your  
door, Bill. Brenda went through two broken marriages, always haunted by  
your memory. She would tell me how she used to wake up at night crying  
out your name. You, only you could have saved her, I think. But, as  
unhappy as she was, at least she -- she was still alive until last month."

"What -- what happened?"

"She went on a skiing trip with some friends. We thought it might break  
her out of the cycle of depression, and she seemed to be really looking  
forward to it, but . . . "

"But what?"

"They saw her do it. She screamed your name, then threw herself into a  
deep crevasse. They haven't managed to recover her body, but there's no  
doubt. None at all. I'm sorry, but I can't talk about it any more. Now,  
if you'll excuse me . . . "

The line went dead. Dead. Just like Brenda. His lost love.

He took the statuette to bed again that night. The dreams came.

Brenda was clutching him fiercely to her. She had her tongue deep in  
his mouth and she was squeezing his erect penis in her fist. "Do me. Do  
me!" She was growling in his ear. And he did her. Did her twice, three  
times. Fucked her thoroughly and completely the way she liked it. Entered  
her from behind. Then he spread her ass cheeks and . . . and did what  
he had only dared with her once in the past. He fucked her, fucked her  
in the ass, and she screamed in pleasure, and he came, and she screamed  
something else, and the world spun, and . . . and he awoke.

The statuette lay there on the bed. Cold metal. Cold, hard, unforgiving  
metal. But still, somehow, alive. Its limbs had changed position again. It  
was on its hands and knees, just as Brenda had been in the dream, the  
dream where he had . . . had fucked her, fucked her in the . . . and  
. . . there were shiny streaks, rivulets of moisture, of fluid trickling  
from . . . what? It looked as if wetness was seeping from the exquisitely  
detailed body openings on the torso. Seeping from the vagina and the  
anus. Bill dabbed at the moistness with his index finger, then smelled  
it. Sperm. His own sperm.

The following night he had a premonition that it would be the last time.  
There was a last time for everything. His last conscious thoughts were  
what the dream-Brenda had screamed at him just before he left her the  
night before. His name, and then, "Join me! Come, join me forever!"

 

Sergeant Frances Furbelow was in charge of the detail investigating the  
disappearance of William Hillyard. He had been reported missing a week  
ago, but they were only now getting around to searching his apartment. It  
was a matter of priorities, of course. With all the crime in the city,  
missing persons were pretty low on the list when it came to priorities.

There was nothing that indicated foul play or gave any leads to his  
whereabouts. But what was that strange lump under the mattress?  
Sergeant Furbelow gingerly extracted a small object . . . what was it?  
It was a statuette or figurine of some sort. The object was silvery in color and  
fairly heavy. It was a meticulously accurate rendering of a naked male,  
anatomically complete all the way down to an exquisitely detailed erect  
penis. In all her years on the force, Sergeant Furbelow had never seen  
anything like it, and it triggered strange feelings in her.

Fanny Furbelow felt the tears trickle down her cheeks. It had been more  
than a year since her divorce and she hungered for physical closeness,  
for human touch. She was lonely and horny and mightily depressed. The  
figurine triggered something fundamental in her. She felt like . . .

Sergeant Frances Furbelow looked around. The other officers in the  
apartment were busy with their assigned tasks and no one was looking  
in her direction. Impulsively, she slipped the statuette into the side  
pocket of her uniform coat. No one would ever know. No one. She groped  
in the pocket for the cute little nub of the figurine's silver-metal  
hardon. She felt stirrings of . . . something. Maybe she'd keep the  
thingie on the pillow at her side while she slept.


End file.
